Chemicals React
by EverlastingShadows
Summary: Fleur Delacour has more than enough to worry about, without Fred Weasley breathing down her neck every chance he gets. Problem is, Fred Weasley's only sole intention is to annoy the French girl...at first.  Set during the Triwizard Tournament.
1. The Beginning of something stupid

The evening had just begun to set within the firmament, forcing the skies to change pigment from its traditional lapis, to a golden-tinged coral, before diffusing to a wreath of liquid copper, until it, finally, suffused into the deepest sable that overtook the coming of darkness. The late November night was accentuated by the crisp plunge of the coming winter's chill, and England was encased within the sepulchral onset of a night that would hold, not only, the mirth of the impossible, but the beginning of the beginning – which is where all stories start.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood tall; silhouetted magnificently against the grey-streaked skies, and glowing from within by the utility of numerous torches; all blazing with the intensity of a thousand suns. Humming quietly to himself, Fred Weasley brusquely walked between the bookshelves of the near-empty library; replacing and returning several hardbound volumes. It was a Friday night, and while everyone was enjoying dinner, there he was, serving the last of his detention for placing dungbombs under Marcus Flint's chair during a Potions class the previous week.

Now, as Fred realised very well, it had been nothing short of epic seeing the slimy Slytherin git get ricocheted by the force, and enveloped by the odour, of the dungbombs. However, he also realised that Potions was a class where entertainment was of no value when one Severus Snape was on hand to inflict torture upon them. Maybe it was all that grease in his hair that blocked humour's way into Snape's skull.

Hence, Fred was in the library, doomed to assisting a very beady Madame Pince every evening, until well after dinner, for a solid week. This wasn't too horrid a situation, considering that the old bat kept to herself, but, somehow or the other, the suffocating wrath of the library always got to him. Easing his way over the wood-panelled floors, the six-foot tall red-head wound his way through the serpentine aisles, desperately seeking a place to shove the volume he had grasped nimbly in his hands in a place where it would remain unnoticed by Madame Pince until well after he was shot of his detention period.

That's when Fred noticed her; leaning carefully against a shelf, sifting through a leather-bound copy of Fantastic Beasts and where to find Them. She was clad in her usual evening uniform of stonewashed jeans, and a pale blue blazer, with her face contorted into an expression that glared confusion.

But Fred did not find it surprising to see her there – considering she recently spent almost all of her free time hovering above books and scrutinising text. Nor did he find it surprising that her face depicted confusion; it was one of three of her existing facial expressions (the most popular one being a delineation of unabashed disgust, which Fred had been the victim of numerous times). No, what bugged Fred most was the fact that the girl had pulled out various books from the shelf she was standing against – a shelf, okay THE shelf, that Fred had actually bothered to sort out.

'Um...excuse me?' He asked, stopping in front of the girl, and praying to dear God that he didn't sound as agitated as he felt.

The girl did not look up at once. Actually, she didn't look up at all. She was immersed in the textbook that was in her bony hands, and looked as if panic was overwhelming her. Fleur Delacour was, of course, no ordinary French girl. There was nothing ordinary about the vivaciousness of the cerulean that filled her bright irises, and there was nothing usual about the way her tendrils, set in a sleek ponytail, reached her waist in a straight column of silver-blond. Her pale complexion, and her slender frame were of no common make either; both were accentuated by a natural blush that crept to her cheeks, and a rigid posture that held her straight, respectively. No, Fleur Delacour was no ordinary girl. But at that moment, she was oblivious to the world around her.

Annoyed, Fred pressed, 'Excuse me?'

Silence.

'Fleur?' He addressed the girl standing before him; a slight hint of exasperation flavouring his tone.

Suddenly, Fleur looked up from the book; her eyes bloodshot, and her voice high, 'Oui?'

'Are you going to put those books back, or not?'

Fred's expression had gradually grown softer. He could sense the desperation behind the one syllable that the French girl had answered him with – and he could give her leeway to justify it: she was a Triwizard Champion, and the first task was only two days away.

'Eh...no, I will be needing zem.' Came the reply, crisp and yet unsure.

Normally, Fred would have taken this as his cue to leave, and would have rushed back at breakneck speed to the Gryffindor common room to salvage the rest of the night. But, and this could be the aftermath of spending five hours with Madame Pince talking, he stayed, rooted to the spot, and wondering what the hell could have turned his female counterpart from the elitist snob that she was, into the sombre, and almost – almost! – reasonable human that stood in front of him.

'D'you need help with those?' Fred huffed, hastily stuffing the book that was in his own hands into the nearest empty slot on the mahogany shelf, and bending over to pick up the mass of textbooks that Fleur had stacked up on the floor.

Fleur was surprised – suspicious, even. She knew Fred Weasley, by reputation, not name, and the only explanation she could surmise for a Hogwarts student wanting to help her, was to help Harry Potter or Cedric Diggory cheat off of her.

'No.' she answered, shooting a poisonous glance towards the red-head, and prising the books from within his grasp.

'Just trying to help.'

'I don't need your 'elp.'

Fleur watched the English boy turn to leave; his jet-black robes swishing around his lean figure as he moved. And that's when her attention was diverted to the fact that there was no way in hell that she could ever carry a stack of books that weighed thrice her own self. And she didn't have her wand either.

'Wait!' She called out, a tiny smile creeping up to her lips, 'Meester -'

'Weasley. Fred Weasley.' Fred finished for her; turning around; the beginnings of an expectant grin starting to etch themselves upon his lightly freckled visage. 'Yeah, I'll help you out.'

Fleur flushed, out of embarrassment rather than anything else. But five minutes later, they were striding across the Hogwarts grounds; Fleur leading the way, while Fred scrambled behind her. She knew that there were two of them – two of the Weasley twins – but what surprised her was how independent the one with her was. Fred was tall, insanely so, and even under the ugly disguise of his school robes, a lean and rather toned figure was easily traceable. His hair was a light shade of rouge – so light, that upon first look, it seemed to fall effortlessly, in golden sheets, upon his broad shoulders and into his chocolate brown eyes.

'You know, anybody could stun you or something. Why would someone go around without a wand? Perfect target, you are.' Fred idly tried to make conversation, stifling a yawn in the process.

Snapping out of her reverie, Fleur shot him a furtive look that soon dissolved into severe irritation. 'Are you trying to kidnap me, Meester Weezley?'

'No, but I could.'

'Ah, but you are a leetle boy. I am much more experienced zan you are in zeese matters.'

Fred couldn't suppress a laugh; as he allowed it to escape his lips. 'Are you going to defend yourself with your ponytail or something?'

Before Fleur could even contemplate to think of a response, they had reached the gargantuan, powder-blue Beauxbatons carriage; the darkness of night ensconcing them, save for the gentle steel of light that the moon half-heartedly provided.

'Well, Meester Weasley, I will take it from here.' Fleur nodded, her countenance rigid; her tone capable of causing frostbite.

Silently, and struggling to masquerade the grin that had permanently carved itself upon his own face, Fred set down the books he'd been subjected to carrying on the gold-hued steps of the massive carriage; his hair falling softly onto his face as he bent downwards.

'Alright, Mademoiselle Delacour,' he began, straightening up and smiling impishly; a glow of pure mischief glinting in his eyes, 'Goodnight.'

'Goodnight.' Fleur bade him, rolling her eyes and turning away to mount the carriage.

Fred continued to smile – afraid that his face might just be permanently set into the expression that he had had plastered over his countenance for the past five minutes. Turning around, he quietly began to make his way back up to the castle. Until –

'Hey, Fleur?' He shouted, rather loudly; his voice sprinkled with a definite tone of mirth.

The French girl whipped around, her eyes livid. 'What?'

'Good luck for the first task.'

And so Fred left; completely aware that he had just left a very flustered Fleur Delacour in his wake.


	2. An unexpected plan

Dressed immaculately in her lapis school robes, Fleur diverted her attention to the newspaper that Madame Maxime had abandoned a few minutes past. Smiling quietly, she scanned the headlines, amused at how much attention one Harry Potter was getting. He was, obviously, underage, slow to react and incompetent; and she still stood by her opinion of it being highly unfair to let the raven-haired child compete, but, and Fleur had to admit it, the boy had skill: he was definitely there to win.

Skimming over the main article, she was about to turn the page, when something caught her eye. Something that drove her up the wall, nailed her there, and left her to bask in her unparalleled rage.

And hell hath no fury like a Delacour scorned, now does it?

* * *

><p>Morning had very quietly crept over Hogwarts; banishing the quiet hostility that came with the darkness of night; and replenishing the spark of hope in the air that came with the blossoming of a brand new day. The Great Hall was ablaze with vitality and mirth; encased by the silent aura of relief and buzzing with gossip. The first task in the Triwizard tournament had just passed the day before, and talk of the task was still fresh.<p>

Stomping, Fleur made her way through the hall; encased in a bubble of fresh rage, and yet still managing to gracefully glide in between the rows, before coming to a halt at the end of the Gryffindor table. She was standing right behind where the Weasley twins were perched upon the benches, surrounded by a band of equally uninteresting companions: the Potter boy, that Granger girl with the extremely bad hair, and two other Weasley children – judging by their flaming red hair, and their gangly disposition.

'Excusez moi?' she began, struggling to keep her voice steady, and painfully aware of the fact that her hat was askew from her uncontrollable anger.

'Fleur!' Chanted Fred Weasley in response, plastering a million-Galleon smile upon his face, and sending the French girl's mind into spasms of unfiltered disgust.

'Meester Weezley -'

'Call me Fred.' The redhead interrupted, waving nonchalantly, and standing up to tower over the blonde.

Pausing for a second to fully absorb the incredibly agitating self-assurance that seemed to radiate from the boy, Fleur replied: 'Oh, how charming, oui? _Meester Weezley_, what is zis?'

Fuming, she slammed that morning's Daily Prophet onto the mahogany table that stood before them; causing George Weasley to leap forward to get a closer look.

'It's a newspaper, Fred.' He supplied, stating the rather obvious, and quickly scanning the page before recoiling in his seat; evidently trying to mask a grin. 'But, mate, I'd probably run if I were you.'

'He won't get ze chance.' Fleur threatened, staring at Fred through a strangely calm stance, while simultaneously pondering whether it would be more effective to castrate him with a spoon, or a pencil.

Rolling his eyes, and pushing a few stray red tendrils out of his eyes, Fred reached forward and gingerly picked up the newspaper, eyeing Fleur closely, and struggling to keep a smile off his face as he realised the absurdity of the entire situation.

'Hark hark, let's see what's so interesting.' He crowed, straightening the copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands and beginning to read aloud – much to the chagrin of his twin brother. 'Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, triumphed in the first Triwizard -'

'Not that...' Fleur interrupted scathingly, before snatching away the newspaper and jabbing it with her finger to indicate the right article. 'This. Don't read it aloud.'

'Okay.' Fred assented, offering a tiny bow, and then proceeding to recite very loudly: 'Fleur Delacour, Triwizard champion from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, was seen, on Tuesday night, wandering the castle grounds, but was, apparently, not alone. Rita Skeeter reports that Miss. Delacour, a vivacious, but shallow girl of 17, was seen with none other than Fred Weasley of Hogwarts School of Witchraft and...oh, fuck.'

The article, it seemed, proceeded to explain how Fleur was using Fred to manipulate and wheedle information on Harry, and was intending to cheat her way to victory. Fred finally got why she was so angry.

'Well, who did you tell?' Fleur fumed, enunciating each word through her teeth, and staring up at the redhead as if she was quite prepared to jab him in the eye with the first object she saw. 'Because zere was nobody zere with us, and I certainly 'ave not told anybody eizer.'

Fred listened intently; more focussed on her accent than anything else, and slowly felt his lips contort into the tiniest of smiles. 'You know, baby, I just had to let the world know how much in love we are!'

'_What_?' George spoke up instantaneously, his jaw dropping so low, it probably would have suffered dislocation.

'WHAT?' Fleur reiterated the question, her blue eyes alight.

'Wait, what?' One of the Weasleys - Ron Weasley, in fact, echoed her, his brow furrowed, and his eyes darting from one person to the other, obviously waiting for some sort of explosion to take place.

The Great Hall was quiet. Very quiet. And everyone was staring at one Fred Weasley waiting for, and in Fleur's case, demanding, a viable explanation.

'Well, love, I just thought...' Fred began in a sing-song voice, pulling Fleur close to him, and staring lovingly at her dangerously red visage, '...everyone should know...about...us.'

'_Us_?' Was the only response Fleur could muster, and it came out as a scared whisper, oozing the threat of an oncoming release of a rage-fuelled blast.

'Us. We shouldn't have to hide our...our feelings! The love that courses through my veins for your -'

Fleur had already fled the hall, her face as white as her hair, and her eyes clouded by madness. She needed to scream. Racing out of the Entrance Hall, she stumbled – well, what she would call stumbling, and what others would figure as just normal walking – out into the open, breathing in the fresh air, and praying that Fred Weasley would either die a painful death, or that she was still in bed, and that this was all just a twisted nightmare due to the fact that all the Hogwarts food was too heavy.

Cursing incoherently, Fleur sought refuge within the Beauxbatons carriage, hastily climbing into it, and slamming the door behind her magnificent self, before slumping to the floor. But then a resounding knocking began to sound from the other side of the vehicle's door, and it grew more insistent by the second.

'OI! Fleur! OPEN THIS DOOR!'

Fleur knew that voice. It was hoarse, and it was calm, and yet it held the constant presence of mirth, which, at that moment, was enough to drive her up the wall.

'YOU! You leetle -' She began, flinging the door open, and trying to mould her emotions into words.

'Shut up.' Fred interrupted, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her against the first wall he saw; effectively pinning her limbs, and quickly kicking the carriage door shut.

Fleur tried to move; and failed. Constantly. Contorting her face into an expression depicting intense loathing, she tried to stare the Englishman down. And when that didn't work, well...that just didn't work.

'Don't you think you're overreacting, just a little bit?' Fred asked quietly, talking as if he was talking to a small child who was incapable of comprehension.

'Overreacting?' Fleur screamed in response, incredulity etched across her countenance, and fury beginning to boil inside her veins. 'You just said -'

'I know what I said, but nobody will take it seriously. Everybody knows that Rita Skeeter's full of it, so what's your problem?'

'My problem is -'

'Your problem is that you take yourself too seriously.'

'No, it's not!'

'Prove it.'

'How?'

'What?'

'I asked, how?'

Fred's eyebrows shot upwards, his lips formulated into a mischievous grin, and his eyes misted with the possibilities of a million different ways in which he could make his victim suffer from intense embarrassment, and severe emotional scarring.

'You want to get back at Rita Skeeter, right?' He began, speaking in an offhand tone, and trying to lure his prey into its trap. Silently, he moved closer, breathing into her face.

'Oui?' Fleur deadpanned, feeling extremely uncomfortable, as the redhead's face floated centimetres away from her own.

'Then go out with me.'

A moment of pin-drop silence ensued; with Fred, evidently impressed with his own supposed brilliance, smiling like a clown drunk on Butterbeer, and Fleur staring at him as if he had lost his mind. And then – she burst out laughing.

'Oh, zat is a good one! No, seriously, what's ze plan?' She managed to spew between each laugh, desperate for air.

'No, I'm serious.' Fred insisted, letting her go, finally, and opening the carriage door. 'Let's go outside; it's bloody stuffy in here.'

Stepping outside, they began to make their way back up to the castle. Fred was obviously rather annoyed that he was being laughed at, and Fleur...well, she just continued to laugh at him.

'I'm serious too. We are not doing zat.'

'It's the perfect plan! Old Skeeter thinks she's getting at you by writing something like this. You prove her right, show her it doesn't bother you, and then she'll leave you alone. And then we can break up.'

It took the next minute and a half of complete silence to realise that he'd walked on; leaving his female counterpart behind. When she'd caught up, she looked suspicious.

'Zat is actually a good idea.' Fleur conceded slowly, speaking as if the admission burned her throat, and bruised her ego.

'I told you.' Fred smiled, flashing her a grin before climbing up the steps and into the Entrance Hall.

'But...we will need to plan zis carefully. So that everyone finds out publicly zat we are togezzur, and zat...yes, that we are...togezzur. This will need careful planning. And -'

Fred had heard just about enough. Pulling the French girl towards himself right before they entered the Great Hall, he gently pressed his lips to hers. He had intended it to be easy; simple. It was anything but that. Wrapping one arm around Fleur's minuscule waist, he eased her body against his own, quietly breathing in the warm scent of honey that seemed to emanate from her. Fleur had already secured both her arms around his neck, and was standing on tip-toe to indulge herself. Running her lips over Fred's, she pressed harder and harder; rather aware of the fact that it was beginning to hurt; but the pain was numb and the pounding blood that was searing through her veins was just another indication that this was no mere kiss. She felt his hand rake through her mane; dismantling the silken strands from their ponytail, and, throwing all caution to the wind, she slipped her tongue inside Fred's mouth; savouring every taste that attacked it.

But then she realised exactly what she was doing. And trying to suppress a scream, she broke away, running a weary hand through her hair, and gasping deeply to regain her breath. Looking up, she saw Fred in the same position; blushing a red so deep, that he matched the exact hue of his hair.

'Well...zat was unexpected.' Fleur huffed, trying to fight a smile.

'Not the word I'd use, but that's alright. Do you want to get breakfast before I go to class?' Fred answered in one breath, and, without waiting for a reply, began to walk inside.

'Yeah, zat sounds like a good idea.' Fleur agreed, walking in step. 'Wait, what was the word you would use?'

Fred simply smiled, and led her to the Gryffindor table, sure that, not only were they being stared at unashamedly by the entire hall, but that he was, finally, beginning to understand the charm that made Fleur Delacour who she was.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi, guys. I know, this is pretty much shit, but it'll get better...I hope! So please, leave a review? I will be eternally grateful, and maybe I'll even write another chapter? :) Thanks.<strong>


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